


Thunders on my feet

by kyo1



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author projecting onto Peter Parker, Bad coping mechanisms, But not lol, Completely Vent Fic, Cus what else can i do, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Dissociation, Horrible Coping Mechanism, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Other, Peter Parker Deserves Better, Peter Parker Is Sad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker is in pain, Peter Parker needs help, Sad Peter Parker, Self harm behavior, Suicidal Peter Parker, Underage Drinking, author projecting onto fictional characters, eating disorder behaviors, lol, no beta-we die like men, sad fic, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyo1/pseuds/kyo1
Summary: Full vent fic sorry lmao. Basically i’m projecting on to Peter my issues.Peter gets slightly drunk and rethinks everything.
Relationships: Peter Parker - Relationship
Kudos: 21





	Thunders on my feet

**Author's Note:**

> TW | 
> 
> I hope this makes sense. Idk. I’m most probably slightly drunk 😃, so i wrote this and idk if it makes sense. Hopefully i’m not embarrassed about this when i reread this tomorrow or something.
> 
> Edit: Okay i fixed all the mistakes , i hope it’s good !

Peter drinks it. And it burns his throat. It’s hurts and it’s uncomfortably warm. It makes him gag slightly. He wants to throw the cup against his wall and watch the liquid coat his wall. He doesn’t. He grips the cup a little tighter and takes another sip. 

He recoils from the sip, his chest tightened and he groans because he hates this. HE HATES THIS SO MUCH AND HE CANT. HE WANTS IT TO STOP. 

He breathes and lays down. He feels himself sink down on to his mattress. He feels his thoughts slip away from his grasps for a single second. He feels every single emotion he could feel, wisp away right before his eyes. 

His hands shake as he takes another sip. 

This one doesn’t burn as much. It tastes like medicine. He smiles. 

Medicine can help. It can. He knows this. 

His vision in blurry at the edges and his chest sinks impossibly deep, so deep he can’t reach in, even with the alcohol in his hand. 

So he takes another sips. The smooth liquid travels down and settles at the pit of his stomach. He sips until he feels his thoughts go faster than his hands. He drinks until all he knows is to write and write and write and write. 

It aches in a way that it smothers his other problems. This time instead of a million problems, he has one. And he can’t help but sigh in relief. 

The time flies away in sets of thirty minutes. He feels his mind turn to putty. His hands are weak and sluggish. His movements are uncoordinated. 

But despite popular belief, he doesn’t feel alive like he thought he would. 

He feels incredibly fake. He feels disconnected from not only everything and everyone around him, but also himself. 

But those seconds of nothingness... The way his eyes fluttered in the dark because his fan was shifting shapes and his heart beat slowed. The way he felt himself fade into the background...

He exhales. Because what else can you do when you’ve spent your whole life inhaling and inhaling everything and you can’t fit anymore hurt into your lungs ? 

He breathes out. His breath smells like medicine ~alcohol~. 

He grips his chest. His stomachs clenches. He brings his palms towards his forehead and he hits and hits until he can feel himself astral project backwards. 

He dismisses the colorful spots in his vision as he takes another sip. 

The letters on his keyboard are a little more blurry, the music in his ears a little more distorted, but the knots in his heart are a little more loose. 

His hands shake. He realizes distantly that he can’t get rid of this because he’s only been eating one meal a day. But he comprises because he doesn’t feel his heart beat anymore. 

He’s not dead. No. But he’s not real. In this moment he seizes to exist. He stops. Everything stops. And the world turns a little slower, time goes a little faster, and his typing is filled with mistakes. 

He thinks in the back of his mind that this is wrong. So wrong. He’s fourteen fucking years old and shouldn’t be stealing alcohol from his aunt. But he forgets those thoughts because in this moment Peter Parker is no more. 

He’s nothing. 

And that’s all he’s wanted. 

What’s he’s desperately yearned for. Searching for nothingness so he could be nothingness. He’s nothing. Everything around him is nothing. 

He also realizes how insignificant he is. But he feels the weight of the worlds on his shaking palms. The weight of his responsibilities settling on his boney shoulders. The weight on his existence chaining him down for inevitable doom. 

But in this moment he’s truly nothing. 

The burn intensifies in his chest. But he types and types because that’s all he can do. That’s all he’ll ever do. 

His sweet little cup of medicine stays next to him. 

He’s not alone if he has it. 

He’s not scared in his dark room. Blasting music on his earphones to drown out his fucking thoughts. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t breathe. 

His chest caves in more and more with every word. Because this is real, he isn’t, but this is. 

He cries from his eyes to his feet. 

He wonders where he’ll be in the future. If he’ll still be like this. Jaded and worn out because he can’t fucking handle things correctly. 

He tries to exhale but he can’t. Every thought is trapped inside his battered lungs. And oh god is he scared. He’s terrified. But a calm sense of serenity falls upon him. 

He lays back, and feels his nerves power off. He feels his blood stop coursing his veins. 

And in this moment he’s alive. And then he’s not. 

And that’s okay. 

He’s been moving in backwards direction. 

I CANT HANDLE REJECTION  
I CANT HANDLE REJECTION 

He rubs his eyes. His arms are so heavy and it hurts to type. But he keeps going and going and going. Like it’ll kill him to stop. And maybe it will. 

He always tries. But in his eyes he swears he can fly. 

~Better luck next time~

**Author's Note:**

> I hate this 😏🤞🏻 Pls excuse any grammatical errors if there’s any. Also , I DO NOT ENCOURAGE UNDERAGE DRINKING !!!!!!!


End file.
